"Oh, anybody's, nobody's," said Ned. "I suppose they are a hundred years old. And who's ever going to sit in such awkward-looking old things as those?"
It did seem preposterous to suppose that anybody would; so we went to work to take out the rounds at once. The old chairs were very strong, and after we had pulled at them in vain to spring them apart enough for the rounds to drop out, we got a saw and sawed off all the rounds an inch or two from the legs.
With these, the ladder was soon made, and I went home and drove two great spikes into the sill of my window, to hang it by.
I used to hang out the ladder every night, and take it in every morning. The first two nights I lay awake till almost daylight, momentarily expecting the stroke of the fire-bell. But it was not heard on those nights, nor the next, nor the next.
"It would be just like our luck," said Ned, "if there should never be another fire in this town."
"It would be lucky for the town," said Phaeton, who overheard him.
"Perhaps so," said Ned; "and yet I could point out some houses that would look a great deal better burned up. I wonder if it would do any good to hang a horseshoe over the door."
"What for?" said Phaeton. "To prevent them from burning?"
"Oh, no," said Ned. "I mean over the door of our office, to—to—well, not exactly to make those houses burn, but to bring us good luck generally."
It did seem a long time for the town to be without a conflagration, and one day Ned came into the office looking quite dejected.